


Parallel

by karachix



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Please note the archive warnings., Read the notes at the end for more specific warnings., Spark Stiles Stilinski, TL;DR stiles doesn't actually die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-03-21 13:34:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karachix/pseuds/karachix
Summary: Stiles dreams of a past life.





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles is walking to the front door when the sight of his father stops him in his tracks. Huh, he thinks, his father is not his father. This man is taller and bulkier, but he feels like his father. His soul is the same something whispers inside him. That’s new too, this voice, this Spark inside him is stronger here, more in tune with his body.

  
He’s wary of Stiles, Stiles can tell. He twitches when Stiles enters the room and he never has his back to Stiles. But his father also loves him, he can tell. He always makes sure Stiles has bread to eat and clothes to wear. He’s scared, but he still makes an effort to talk to him. Before he can say a word, his father tells him to go find his mother.

  
Discomforted by his father not father, Stiles leaves the little compound and wanders into town. The townspeople sneer at him, they stare and point, others shoo him away from their food stall. He doesn’t understand, can’t speak, can’t defend himself. He can feel that he’s scared, something foreboding is on the horizon. Something awful is happening soon.

  
Nevermind that, he needs to find his mother. His mother? She’s dead, what. Not dead. Here she isn’t dead, his Spark whispers. Oh that’s right, His mother, sick with some unseen illness speaking in tongues and roaming around the village. She’s actively shunned and ignored.

  
Stiles is in the town square where the market is hustling and bustling when he catches sight of his mother.

  
“Diseased. You’re curse. Created from ill will. A being of ill will. You’ve taken lives haven’t you, wench?”, his mother says, her farm-rough hands wrapped around the town head’s daughter’s face.

  
Then, Stiles’ mother brought forth a knife and raised it to slit the girl’s throat. The girl’s servant knocks Stiles’ mother over at the last moment and the knife swings large and slices the girl’s face as Stiles watches from two stalls down. Horrified. The cut sizzles and smokes and his mother is accused of witchcraft.

* * *

 

Stiles’ mother is sentenced to death by pyre. Her crime of injuring the town head’s precious daughter. His father is heartbroken and angry, but there’s nothing one man can do. So he locks Stiles in the house and goes to say farewell to his wife.

  
Stiles is talented at picking any and all locks, but this one won’t budge. His father knew him too well. Stiles is desperate and scared and he cries tears of frustration, he needs to see his mom. She may have hurt the girl, but she’s still his mom. He cries and wishes and wills the door to open and his chest gets really tight and the door gives. It opens and it’s like the lock and the knots of rope were never there.

  
He runs to town square but he’s too late. They’ve tied her to the pyre and the town head drops the torch just as Stiles runs towards her. He screams for her and she screams for herself. The flames egged on by the dry brush underneath.

  
Stiles throws himself at the pyre. Drags piles of smoking brush away. The flames licking at his arms. He doesn’t feel it. He wills the flames to stop for the brush to stop burning and he’s furious they don’t. How dare they take his mother. His mother who raised him who fed him the best parts of the rabbits his father catches, his mother who sings to him on cold nights to make him forget that he’s freezing to death. He’s furious and he wills it again, his chest goes tight, he can’t breathe and the smoke makes him close his eyes but when he opens them, the flames have died, the dry brush resistant to fire. He’s joyous just for a moment before arms grab his shoulders and drag him to where the town head is standing. The grey looking old man kicks him in the ribs, yelling about him being an abomination as his daughter looks on in glee.

  
He hurts, his ribs, his arms, his heart (he can’t hear his mother screaming anymore, they must’ve relit the fire). But he can’t die like this, he hurts, his ribs are fragile so he wills them strong like the mountain that is north of the village, the large daunting one with stone rock faces that he likes to try to climb but stopped once his mother cried when he got hurt. He wills his body to be as hard as stone as unyielding as the mountain and the next kick the towns head aims at him connects, but it snaps his foot, his toes breaking upon impact. The towns head screams and Stiles uses that moment to roll away and with the momentum of his roll, he staggers up and runs towards the mountain.

  
Something is telling him not to look (his Spark), but he can’t help it, he has to know. He peers back and he almost trips in his need to run straight back. His mother, his beautiful radiant mother. Her bottom half was torched and grisly, her upper half slowly becoming the same way. She’s stopped breathing he can tell, her eyes are open, unfocused, glassy but he feels like she’s looking at him, urging him on.

  
He runs to the mountains and scales the rock face like he’s done a thousand times before. He hides on the mountain. Gathering plants that he’s seen his mother pick and grind for his father a million times before. He picks them all and hides in his cave, the one he goes to when the world gets too much and his ears buzz like flies around manure. He chews up the plants and mixes it with the mud found in the cave. Then, he applies it to his burns, tears gathering in his eyes. His mother used to distract him by singing to him when she wrapped his wounds. She won’t be doing that anymore. Exhausted, he falls into a dreamless sleep.

  
His father finds him early the next morning, gently calling his name at the mouth of the cave. Only his father would know where his is, having exasperatedly collected him a thousand times before, back when his mother still smiled and he still had time to be childish and bothersome.

  
His chest clenches and it’s different, it’s not the…the power that he called upon before, its different. His chest is closing up and he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He’s scared, but that’s his father why would his power, his Spark, respond like this. Resolute he stands up and slowly exits the cave. His father startles and stares at him.

  
“Johanne...”, his father looks disappointed, almost scared to have found him.

  
“Look at you. You’re hurt, have you eaten?”

  
He shakes his head overcome with emotion, his father! His father is here, everything will be alright. His father hands him a little bread roll and he cries as he eats it, his hands are crusted over with scabs and the wounds pull when he tries to eat.

  
His father shakes his head and takes the bread roll from him. He tears it apart and feeds him bite by bite.

  
“Come here Johanne,” his father holds him close, kisses him on his forehead like he hasn’t done in years, “Are you finished? Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  
His father leads him to the river nearby and tells him to wash his face as he stands guard. Here, his power, it swells unbelievably. It’s errant and strong, cresting to a large wave inside him. No, it tells him, no Johanne. But Johanne, Johanne who was raised by his mother was taught to obey and to respect his father. He loves his father, he reminds himself so he obediently gets on his knees at the river bank and looks in. His hands, covered in the poultice he made on the fly ache and pulls every time he moves them, but he dips them in the water anyways and nearly screams, the water is so cold and frigid like ice. He gathers it in his burnt palms and raises them to his eyes to clear the smoke from them, he scrubs and he scrubs and he hears a branch snap behind him.

  
“Father,” he calls out anxiously.

  
“Johanne,” his father’s voice breaks, “my son. I’m sorry but this is mercy compare to what they’ll do if they catch you.”

  
His eyes clear and he opens them just in time for his father to grab him by the neck and push him towards the river. The last thing he sees is his father’s reflection in the water, tears streaming down his face.

Johanne doesn’t struggle despite the initial jerk. He knows it’s for naught. His power is screaming away inside him, confident it can overcome his father and win. But Johanne is tired, he’s so tired and so sad. His father is killing him so he let’s go. He turns limp just as the water turns bright from the reflection of something, fire, the towns head and his people were here. His father’s hands loosen from his neck and for a moment he thinks he’ll survive, but a second later his father’s foot pushes him down and hastens the process by applying pressure on his windpipe. And everything goes black.

* * *

 

Stiles startles awake plastered with sweat. He pulls out his dream journal and logs it down. June 14, 2014 #32, the same dream, the same scenario, his hand shakes as he writes “Dream sequence ended when I died.”


	2. Little Smiling Hooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles uses his dreams of a past life to help him in his current life.

Stiles is not a good person. He's spent all of his life trying to be a one, trying to be someone that's fit to be Scott's friend, fit to be his father’s son. He's discovered that it's really fucking hard to be a good person. You have to make decisions where no one gets hurt, value the majority over minority and Scott, good ol Scott, was the epitome of a good person. Scott would sacrifice himself if it meant his mom and Allison could survive. And Stiles, Stiles would sacrifice the entirety of the Beacon Hills population if it meant no harm would come to Scott. But nowadays, Scott probably wouldn't return the favor. It's okay, Stiles will do it anyways. 

Stiles is loyal. He knows it's his only redeeming trait. What Stiles doesn't know is that he's loyal to a fault. His morals are skewed. He saves people, yes, but he only saves them because Scott wants to save them. What Scott wants, Stiles wants. What the Sheriff wants, Stiles wants. It's kind of fucked up to use your only friend and only family member as a moral compass, but what else is Stiles supposed to do?

What the Sheriff would want right now is for the rogue omega to disappear. Stiles doesn’t want his dad to wake up to more news of disappearances. So Stiles, Stiles puts on his big boy pants, the ones that actually fit, running shoes, and a black hoodie. Stiles is going to take care of the rogue.

It's actually easier to do things once you know you're not a good person. See, Stiles knows that Derek and Peter are on the other side of town, sniffing around the site of where a body was last found. Stiles was given direct orders to stay home and wait for news. Stiles also has a gut feeling that the rogue omega was going to be in the Preserve tonight so he heads into the Preserve and waits. He sits there with one hand cradling his chin and the other clasped around a Ziploc bag full of mountain ash. He waits and waits until he hears a rustle. Stiles looks down at his watch, 10:47 PM. He looks up at the approaching blur of black and brown and smiles.

"Here, boy." he says.

The rogue charges towards Stiles and Stiles lifts his hand, closes his eyes, and believes. When he opens his eyes, the rogue omega had been surrounded with mountain ash, the Ziploc bag torn and laying by Stiles’ feet. Stiles claps his hands together and gets up. He brushes the dirt off the back of his pants and wipes his forehead of the light sheen of sweat that had been building. Stiles calmly leans down to his book bag and pulls out the crossbow he received via Chris Argent. He pulls out an arrow from a leather bag in his book bag. He loads the arrow into the appropriate chamber, aims, and pulls the trigger.

There's a light whistle as the arrow is released and a squelch as it sinks into the werewolf's shoulder. The rogue werewolf howls in pain.

"Shit!" Stiles curses, now he has to hurry before Derek and Peter race back to the Preserve.

Stiles slaps his face with his free hand and breathes through his nose. He didn’t want to resort to this, but he has to. He places the crossbow down on the nearby tree trunk and pulls out another arrow from the leather bag and weighs it in his palm. It's slightly heavier than the last one, meaning it has mountain ash in it's core.

Stiles nods to himself, _this one will do_. He lays the arrow on the palm of his left hand, aiming the tip towards the rogue werewolf. He closes his eyes and concentrates his belief. Tries his best to remember how he did it in his dreams. He remembers that everytime he used his power, he just needed to want it desperately, to truly believe in himself, believe that when he opens his eyes he’ll see the results. Stiles starts to internally chant, _Fly and hit the werewolf. Hit the werewolf between the eyes. Kill the werewolf. Kill and protect. To kill is to protect._

Stiles opens his eyes and stares into the rogue's eyes. The arrow flies.

It hits the werewolf right between his eyes and he falls down without so much a sound.

Stiles releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. Then he doubles over and throws up right into the base of a nearby tree. Even though the squelch of the arrow sinking into the werewolf sounded nothing like the snap of his own neck, he can’t help but retch and vomit until there's nothing left but strings of clear mucus. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hoodie sleeve and uses the tree as support to get up. He stands there and breathes for who knows how long. He blinks and discovers that he's crying. Of course he's crying, he killed a person. _A person_. He did it to protect those he cared about. Protect. Kill to protect. That's why Stiles did it. If he didn't then who knows what the rogue would've done, it could've killed people, killed Scott, _his dad_.

_This is nothing_ , he reminds himself. This is nothing, it's a small price to pay to protect those he cares about. He breathes in, breathes out, looks down at his watch, 10:52 PM, only five minutes has passed. Stiles wants to be the Stiles of five minutes ago, but it's too late. He breathes in, breathes out, then he holds out a hand. _It’s almost comical_ , he thinks, holding out his hand like a some sort of superhero when all he’s done is kill an omega who was out of his mind. _Alright enough of that._ Stiles closes his eyes and envisions the ground eating the corpse, just a dark brown maw that opens and closes around the omega.

Stiles hears a pop and opens his eyes. His power, his Spark has done him one better. The mountain ash surrounding the werewolf is rising and enveloping the corpse. It sinks into the werewolf's sink and starts vibrating the body. The vibrating intensifies until the cells of the werewolf separate into molecules and then into atoms and then disintegrate into nothing. Nothing is left, no corpse, no mountain ash, no arrows. Stiles sighs out his relief.

He picks up the crossbow from where he set it and puts it into his book bag. He grabs the book and puts it into the outer pocket of the bag. Then, he turns back to the scene of the crime, his crime, and believes. _Erase all traces._ A light breeze carries through the Preserve, blowing gently over the disturbed leaves on the ground and dirt, it moves everything so that nothing seems out of place. The vomit sinks into the earth and the entire area looks as if no one was murdered there. Satisfied, Stiles picks up the book bag and swings it onto his shoulders and walks away and doesn't look back. The gentle breeze follows, resetting every leaf, every branch, and every inch of dirt he steps on. It'll be as if no one has been here. No one at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Graphic Violence: someone is burned alive at the pyre and then someone else is drowned by another person. One of these characters is a major character.
> 
> Please let me know what you think. I wrote this because I'm curious about Sparks and their lineage and how everything in the story would pan out if Stiles had a better grip on his abilities.
> 
> May add to this if I somehow figure out what Stiles will do with these dreams and the knowledge that comes with them.


End file.
